Sometimes life presents us with opportunities that were not necessarily earned. However, you can still grab hold of that good fortune, make the most of it, and prove to everyone that in the end the opportunity was deserved.
We were on our way home from my son's baseball game when I received a message from the Babe Ruth organization asking for a couple players to fill out the Sacramento 13U All-Star roster. I turned to my son in the back seat and asked, "Hey, you want to be an All-Star?" He shrugged and said, “Sure.”
I answered the e-mail and within minutes he was on the team. I told him as a late addition he might ride the pine, and to be prepared for that. Just get a few at-bats and have some fun, I added.
The one and only practice was an hour-long affair at Natomas High School where the coach, Barry Worthington, tried to get a feel for each kid’s talents. Barry was the coach of the Natomas High School team, and had never seen any of these young Babe Ruth kids before. When he asked who pitched, only a few kids raised their hands. There were a few standouts during the short practice, but overall I thought Spencer could play with these kids. By the end of the practice I had a feeling he would get the opportunity to contribute.
In the first game we faced a Woodland team that had probably been practicing together for weeks, and it showed. Their infield practice before the game was executed precisely and expertly. It was impressive. I figured we might be in trouble.
Woodland pounded Sacramento to the tune of 16-4. Spencer threw well in relief, and was the only pitcher to slow the onslaught, but the third baseman and catcher combined for five or six errors and countless passed balls while he was on the hill.
In game two the next day against Elk Grove National, I was surprised to see Spencer walk out to start the game. He was definitely getting a chance to contribute.
There was a new catcher for this game and he was awesome. The little guy was a wall behind the dish, threw out a couple runners and called a great game. A different kid also manned third base, and he made a big difference. Spencer threw four shutout innings and Sacramento won 10-0.
Game three was against Elk Grove American. The good pitchers were either not available due to pitching rules (like Spencer) or tired. Fortunately both teams seemed to be in the same boat. Spencer played the outfield and reached base four times, driving in a couple runs. The somewhat ugly 16-15 victory elevated us out of the loser’s bracket.
In game four, as winners of the loser's bracket, we advanced to play the team that put us there: Woodland. They were good, no doubt, but I thought Spencer could beat them if given the chance. Because of his earlier performances, he was indeed given that chance.
Spencer took the mound coming off his great outing in game two looking poised and confident. He put up three zeros in the first three innings even though he was having trouble finding the very small strike zone. He mixed speeds and locations well, a credit to his fine catcher. Together the duo kept Woodland off balance most of the night.
At the plate, Spencer had an RBI single in the second and a bases clearing double in the fourth. He entered the fifth inning with a healthy 7-1 lead.
Woodland started finding their bats in the fifth and sixth, but Spencer did a great job of limiting the damage. He really battled and made good pitches when he absolutely had to.
Sacramento entered the seventh inning with a 7-4 lead with Spencer still on the mound, but he was running out of pitches. After a first pitch popup yielded a quick out, I thought maybe he had a chance to close it out.
The next hitter rifled a grounder past the mound that Spencer just missed getting a glove on. No big deal; he had been getting ground balls all night. One more and we win.
The third hitter chopped a ball to third with the runner moving. The third baseman should have thrown to first for the sure out, but instead threw late to second. Still, the mood in the stands was good. He had escaped a few of these jams tonight.
The next batter hit a perfect double-play grounder to short that should have ended it. The second baseman was at the bag waiting for the feed, but instead of getting the easy out 10 feet away, the shortstop inexplicably airmailed his throw over the first baseman’s head. My heart sank.
With the bases loaded and one out, and having thrown 96 pitches, the manager made the slow walk to the mound to remove Spencer. Spectators from both sides gave him an ovation.
Were it not for the pitch count rules, I would have left him in for one more batter. He still had bullets left, and he was getting ground balls all night. I really believe he would have wiggled out of it.
The next pitcher gave up hit after hit after hit. Woodland scored seven runs in the 7th and we lost 11-7. Spencer ended up with a no decision after battling his ass off for 6.1 innings.
After the game the home plate umpire sought him out and shook his hand. Three parents from the opposing team came over and also shook his hand. It was very cool to witness.
One father approached me and said, “Nobody has ever shut us down like that. NOBODY.” He gave me a fist bump and walked away.
After the awards ceremony, the coach asked Spencer if he was going to play high school ball. Spencer said yes, he was hoping to make the team. The coach laughed and said, "Make it? You are going to be their
ace!"
It was a rough way to end the run, but overall a great experience. I thought it was valuable experience for Spencer to stand atop the big stage and perform well. He will go into his summer tournaments with a lot of momentum and confidence, I'm sure.
Saturday, July 8, 2017
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Blue
As
a boy
I
had an antique medicine bottle
A
gift from my grandfather
Made
of a deep blue glass.
I
loved looking at the world through it
Painting
everything in shades of blue.
I
would stare into the fireplace
Deep
into the flickering flames
Dancing
wildly
Like
burning blue ghosts.
I
had forgotten about all this
Until
just now
When
she turned to look back at me
One
last time
Before
drifting off into our last December
Her
eyes cutting through the thick, gray fog
Like
blue bottle fire.
Friday, April 22, 2016
The Bunt Sign
Some years back, while eating dinner on a Friday night, my young son asked if we could go to the park in the morning. “No, I have to do my long ride tomorrow,” I answered.
My wife lifted her head, made eye contact, and brushed the figurative bill of her ballcap—the bunt sign. I acknowledged that I received the sign and stepped back into the batter’s box, ready to lay down the sacrifice. “But I guess I can go riding on Sunday,” I added.
Before the cycling gods cursed my legs, dooming me to a career of bicycle racing mediocrity, I was a baseball player. A perennial minor league star, I played for seven long years. My diminutive size made it difficult to promote to the majors, and consequently I played with a big chip on my shoulder. Never was this more evident than when the coach gave me the bunt sign. To put it bluntly, the bunt sign pissed me off. To me this was the coach saying, “You’re too damn small to drive the run in.”
I rarely bunted.
At first I would simply ignore the sign and swing away, usually with good results. Anger has always improved my focus. I remember one instance in particular when the game was tied in the last inning, with one out and a man on first. The smart play was to bunt the runner over, which was exactly what the coach asked me to do. However, I ignored the sign. I swung away and lined a double into the left-center gap, driving in the winning run. While the team rushed to home plate for the celebration, I was rounding second knowing my name would be in the newspaper. As I trotted toward the coach at third base, he asked me if I had received the bunt sign. “Yeah, I saw it,” I replied. He benched me for the next game.
After that I became smarter about being selfish. I would play dumb if asked about seeing the sign. I would even miss a couple attempted bunts so the coach would remove the bunt sign with two strikes. Whatever it took. I just wanted to swing the bat and get my hits. You didn’t get your name in the local paper for bunting.
Mountain bike racing came just as my frustration with team sports was peaking. Racing was freedom to freelance, a lone man against hundreds, depending on no one and nobody depending on me.
They say that to excel at bike racing requires great sacrifice. This is true, but not in a noble sense. This is not a sacrifice of yourself for others, but really a sacrifice of others for yourself. The hours spent on the bike can be lonesome, of course, but those lonely miles cannot be called true sacrifice. While you might miss your family and friends, you are trading time with them for individual glory. What some might see as “dedication to your sport” is nothing more than dedicated selfishness. Not surprisingly, the supremely self-centered are often the ones who stand upon the center step of the podium.
At some point most bike racers have to grow up. When you start a family, you are essentially playing team sports again. Having teammates is strange at first and difficult to get used to. At times it feels as if every look to the third base coach reveals yet another bunt sign.
In time bunting becomes second nature, and pretty soon you are dropping them down without even looking at the third base coach. You become accustomed to situational hitting and taking one for the team.
Every once in a while, though, the third base coach gives a tug to the sleeve—the sign to swing away. You dig in and hope for a fastball middle-in. On those rare occasions when you connect and send the ball flying over the wall, it’s nice to round third and see your teammates waiting for you at home plate.
My wife lifted her head, made eye contact, and brushed the figurative bill of her ballcap—the bunt sign. I acknowledged that I received the sign and stepped back into the batter’s box, ready to lay down the sacrifice. “But I guess I can go riding on Sunday,” I added.
Before the cycling gods cursed my legs, dooming me to a career of bicycle racing mediocrity, I was a baseball player. A perennial minor league star, I played for seven long years. My diminutive size made it difficult to promote to the majors, and consequently I played with a big chip on my shoulder. Never was this more evident than when the coach gave me the bunt sign. To put it bluntly, the bunt sign pissed me off. To me this was the coach saying, “You’re too damn small to drive the run in.”
I rarely bunted.
At first I would simply ignore the sign and swing away, usually with good results. Anger has always improved my focus. I remember one instance in particular when the game was tied in the last inning, with one out and a man on first. The smart play was to bunt the runner over, which was exactly what the coach asked me to do. However, I ignored the sign. I swung away and lined a double into the left-center gap, driving in the winning run. While the team rushed to home plate for the celebration, I was rounding second knowing my name would be in the newspaper. As I trotted toward the coach at third base, he asked me if I had received the bunt sign. “Yeah, I saw it,” I replied. He benched me for the next game.
After that I became smarter about being selfish. I would play dumb if asked about seeing the sign. I would even miss a couple attempted bunts so the coach would remove the bunt sign with two strikes. Whatever it took. I just wanted to swing the bat and get my hits. You didn’t get your name in the local paper for bunting.
Mountain bike racing came just as my frustration with team sports was peaking. Racing was freedom to freelance, a lone man against hundreds, depending on no one and nobody depending on me.
They say that to excel at bike racing requires great sacrifice. This is true, but not in a noble sense. This is not a sacrifice of yourself for others, but really a sacrifice of others for yourself. The hours spent on the bike can be lonesome, of course, but those lonely miles cannot be called true sacrifice. While you might miss your family and friends, you are trading time with them for individual glory. What some might see as “dedication to your sport” is nothing more than dedicated selfishness. Not surprisingly, the supremely self-centered are often the ones who stand upon the center step of the podium.
At some point most bike racers have to grow up. When you start a family, you are essentially playing team sports again. Having teammates is strange at first and difficult to get used to. At times it feels as if every look to the third base coach reveals yet another bunt sign.
In time bunting becomes second nature, and pretty soon you are dropping them down without even looking at the third base coach. You become accustomed to situational hitting and taking one for the team.
Every once in a while, though, the third base coach gives a tug to the sleeve—the sign to swing away. You dig in and hope for a fastball middle-in. On those rare occasions when you connect and send the ball flying over the wall, it’s nice to round third and see your teammates waiting for you at home plate.
Saturday, April 9, 2016
Waiting
It’s hot. Africa hot. An eerie silence has descended upon my neighborhood. From my perspective on the front porch, not a single person is in view as far as I can see. The yards are all empty, the windows all closed, the shades all drawn. My schoolmates and I are all home from school now, and yet the streets that are normally the venue for afternoon baseball are strangely empty, the striking players refusing to play in these conditions. It will be a few hours yet before the other kids will venture out, waiting for the oppressive heat to wane. A long, crowded commute on a hot school bus has left us instead craving a tall glass of something cold and sweet and a cool place in front of the TV. But I will watch no television today, for I am in my mother’s doghouse again. I will have to sit out here on the porch for a while and serve my sentence. It seems that I alone will brave the harsh elements of this early June day.
But I am alone only in the human sense.
The magpies, normally annoyingly vociferous, are silent, taking refuge on the lush, green grass under the two black walnut trees in my front yard. They cast a wary eye towards the porch as they wait for the cool of evening to resume their normal routine. Their banana yellow beaks agape, they pant in a futile attempt to cool down. My dog Chuck, the object of the magpies’ anxiety, lies off to my side, panting also. The Labrador retriever was a gift from my parents on my fourth birthday. Three years old now, Chuck is experiencing his hottest summer yet. His black coat surely was not designed for the extreme heat of the Sacramento Valley. For the birds on the lawn he has no interest: a bird dog with no will to hunt the teasing magpies who surely haunt his dreams. Today these natural adversaries have a common enemy in the heat, much like the lions and cheetahs and zebras and gazelles of the Serengeti Plains. They lie disinterested in each other, side by side under the searing sun, waiting for nightfall to hunt and be hunted.
With dark brown, sorrowful eyes, Chuck pleads to me for help but there is little I can do. My mom won’t let him enter her house—a sterile, bright white, dirt-free environment that has certain areas where even I am not allowed to go. Dogs are dirty, she says. I have already hosed Chuck down once in an effort to cool him off, but the relief was short lived.
When the heat becomes unbearable, I turn on the hose once again and he allows me to wet his thick, black fur. Taking turns, we lap the cold, rubbery water from the hose. Relieved again for the time being, a goofy smile stretches across his muzzle and I giggle as we play in the soothing water. Sufficiently cooled off, we then return to our accustomed positions on the porch, having drank so much water that we can barely move. We both just stare out into the rising heat. There is not much else to do but wait it out.
The insects have also fallen silent. The cicadas, usually filling the summer air with their shrill song, have given up for the day. Likewise, the katydids and crickets have lost their voices. The only sound is the distant drone of Interstate 80, which runs right behind my house. Even the record-setting heat of this summer day does not slow the highway traffic. Like a purring cat that never wakes, there is a perpetual din that remains constant, day and night. The sound is a natural part of my environment, like the wind hissing through the trees or the rain pattering on the roof. But only on a very still and quiet day like today do I notice that the freeway is even there.
My house sits atop a hill, making our yard slope steeply towards the street. From the front porch the walkway in front of me drops off out of sight as it makes its way to the shimmering road. It is as if I am sitting on a dock watching ships sail over the horizon and disappear. To the left of the walkway, along the side of the garage, drooping bottlebrush bushes drip their red, prickly flowers toward the ground. The honey bees and the big, fat bumble bees that frequent these plants are nowhere to be seen. Red lava rock, as hot as it has been since its volcanic birth, covers the ground around the bushes. To my right I check the chrysanthemums, also floating in a river of red lava, for signs of life. The butterflies—Monarchs, Tiger Swallowtails, Cabbage, and Buckeyes—are gone too. However, I notice that there are tiny yellow crab spiders in some of the blooms, waiting motionless for an insect meal that will not come today. Above the mums, geraniums flourish in a planter box built just below the living room window. I stay away from them though because, unlike most people, I think they smell like dirty socks.
Our well-manicured grass is difficult to mow because of the slope. My dad says that I will be big enough to mow it myself soon. The slope of the yard does provide some benefits though. My driveway has become the favorite place for the neighborhood boys to race their Hot Wheels. We carefully set up the long tracks and race them all the way from the garage to the gutter. Lately I have been winning because my dad showed me how to put sewing machine oil on the axles to make the cars go faster.
The two walnut trees create a canopy that lets little sunlight filter through to the turf. Around the trees, a circle of stones protects the delicate daisies caressing the trunks. Like huge, six-foot hay bales, bunches of pampas grass run along the side fence. The blades are long, narrow, and razor sharp like swords. My father planted them as a deterrent to burglars but for the most part they only cut the neighborhood kids and devour our wayward baseballs. And anyway, Chuck would never let a burglar get over the fence.
The garage of our house looks like an old brown barn from a Midwestern farm. Its broad angular roof ends on either side with eaves that hang down very low. A seven-year-old like me can easily run beneath them, but adults must duck or walk around. Over the large front door, decorative woodwork mimics the doors of a hay loft.
Over the slope of the lawn I can see the street. Images from some far off, distant place dance and shiver in the silver heat that rises from the asphalt like fleeing spirits. Walking home from the bus stop an hour or so ago, the road a black skillet, I felt the heat biting me through my leather sandals. I tried to hop as I walked in an effort to keep my feet off the ground as long as possible, like the lizard I saw on television that alternately raised two of its feet above the fiery desert sand to keep them cool. But for me, it didn’t work. I resorted to walking in the gutter, where a small stream of warm but refreshing water flowed, even though I knew that my mom would probably get mad at me for soaking my good sandals. And I was right. So here I sit on the front porch with my dog, both banished from the house, waiting for my sandals to dry.
I find it a little hard to breathe, the heat like a python constricting my chest. The air is dry, still and tasteless. Dead. No breeze to carry fragrance, no moisture to enhance it. I look over to Chuck and see that he is already dry again. Scooting over next to him I draw a deep breath. A dry dog, like a dry summer day, has no smell.
Sweat forms tiny pools at the base of each blonde hair on my arm. I sit and watch until the pools grow large and overflow their pores, generating small streams that flow down to the lake forming in valley of my elbow.
Even though the sun falls lower toward the horizon, this is the hottest part of the day. As the shadow from the front porch overhang creeps forward towards the street, the first signs of life appear before me. A trail of ants strings across the walkway, following the shadow of the overhang, noticeably avoiding the sun. I drop a small stone in their path and they become confused for a short time. But they quickly find their way around it and resume the serious business of being ants.
The magpies are still sitting under the tree, waiting. This is the first time that I have ever been this close to them. Normally they are very timid. My dad says it is because they are quite intelligent. His friend had one when they were kids and he taught it to talk. Dad says that you have to split their tongues with a razor blade to form a fork in order for them to speak. I have always wondered what it would be like to have one for a pet but I’m sure my mom wouldn’t let me have one. Birds are dirty, she would say.
I hear the doorknob click and turn around to see my mom opening the front door. “Are your sandals dry yet, kiddo?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Okay, you can come in now.”
“Can Chuck come?” I ask.
“No honey, he’s filthy.”
“Hmm. Okay, I’ll just stay out here for a while then.”
With a frown and a shake of her head, my mother closes the door. Chuck and I stare out into the rising heat. We’re just going to wait it out.
But I am alone only in the human sense.
The magpies, normally annoyingly vociferous, are silent, taking refuge on the lush, green grass under the two black walnut trees in my front yard. They cast a wary eye towards the porch as they wait for the cool of evening to resume their normal routine. Their banana yellow beaks agape, they pant in a futile attempt to cool down. My dog Chuck, the object of the magpies’ anxiety, lies off to my side, panting also. The Labrador retriever was a gift from my parents on my fourth birthday. Three years old now, Chuck is experiencing his hottest summer yet. His black coat surely was not designed for the extreme heat of the Sacramento Valley. For the birds on the lawn he has no interest: a bird dog with no will to hunt the teasing magpies who surely haunt his dreams. Today these natural adversaries have a common enemy in the heat, much like the lions and cheetahs and zebras and gazelles of the Serengeti Plains. They lie disinterested in each other, side by side under the searing sun, waiting for nightfall to hunt and be hunted.
With dark brown, sorrowful eyes, Chuck pleads to me for help but there is little I can do. My mom won’t let him enter her house—a sterile, bright white, dirt-free environment that has certain areas where even I am not allowed to go. Dogs are dirty, she says. I have already hosed Chuck down once in an effort to cool him off, but the relief was short lived.
When the heat becomes unbearable, I turn on the hose once again and he allows me to wet his thick, black fur. Taking turns, we lap the cold, rubbery water from the hose. Relieved again for the time being, a goofy smile stretches across his muzzle and I giggle as we play in the soothing water. Sufficiently cooled off, we then return to our accustomed positions on the porch, having drank so much water that we can barely move. We both just stare out into the rising heat. There is not much else to do but wait it out.
The insects have also fallen silent. The cicadas, usually filling the summer air with their shrill song, have given up for the day. Likewise, the katydids and crickets have lost their voices. The only sound is the distant drone of Interstate 80, which runs right behind my house. Even the record-setting heat of this summer day does not slow the highway traffic. Like a purring cat that never wakes, there is a perpetual din that remains constant, day and night. The sound is a natural part of my environment, like the wind hissing through the trees or the rain pattering on the roof. But only on a very still and quiet day like today do I notice that the freeway is even there.
My house sits atop a hill, making our yard slope steeply towards the street. From the front porch the walkway in front of me drops off out of sight as it makes its way to the shimmering road. It is as if I am sitting on a dock watching ships sail over the horizon and disappear. To the left of the walkway, along the side of the garage, drooping bottlebrush bushes drip their red, prickly flowers toward the ground. The honey bees and the big, fat bumble bees that frequent these plants are nowhere to be seen. Red lava rock, as hot as it has been since its volcanic birth, covers the ground around the bushes. To my right I check the chrysanthemums, also floating in a river of red lava, for signs of life. The butterflies—Monarchs, Tiger Swallowtails, Cabbage, and Buckeyes—are gone too. However, I notice that there are tiny yellow crab spiders in some of the blooms, waiting motionless for an insect meal that will not come today. Above the mums, geraniums flourish in a planter box built just below the living room window. I stay away from them though because, unlike most people, I think they smell like dirty socks.
Our well-manicured grass is difficult to mow because of the slope. My dad says that I will be big enough to mow it myself soon. The slope of the yard does provide some benefits though. My driveway has become the favorite place for the neighborhood boys to race their Hot Wheels. We carefully set up the long tracks and race them all the way from the garage to the gutter. Lately I have been winning because my dad showed me how to put sewing machine oil on the axles to make the cars go faster.
The two walnut trees create a canopy that lets little sunlight filter through to the turf. Around the trees, a circle of stones protects the delicate daisies caressing the trunks. Like huge, six-foot hay bales, bunches of pampas grass run along the side fence. The blades are long, narrow, and razor sharp like swords. My father planted them as a deterrent to burglars but for the most part they only cut the neighborhood kids and devour our wayward baseballs. And anyway, Chuck would never let a burglar get over the fence.
The garage of our house looks like an old brown barn from a Midwestern farm. Its broad angular roof ends on either side with eaves that hang down very low. A seven-year-old like me can easily run beneath them, but adults must duck or walk around. Over the large front door, decorative woodwork mimics the doors of a hay loft.
Over the slope of the lawn I can see the street. Images from some far off, distant place dance and shiver in the silver heat that rises from the asphalt like fleeing spirits. Walking home from the bus stop an hour or so ago, the road a black skillet, I felt the heat biting me through my leather sandals. I tried to hop as I walked in an effort to keep my feet off the ground as long as possible, like the lizard I saw on television that alternately raised two of its feet above the fiery desert sand to keep them cool. But for me, it didn’t work. I resorted to walking in the gutter, where a small stream of warm but refreshing water flowed, even though I knew that my mom would probably get mad at me for soaking my good sandals. And I was right. So here I sit on the front porch with my dog, both banished from the house, waiting for my sandals to dry.
I find it a little hard to breathe, the heat like a python constricting my chest. The air is dry, still and tasteless. Dead. No breeze to carry fragrance, no moisture to enhance it. I look over to Chuck and see that he is already dry again. Scooting over next to him I draw a deep breath. A dry dog, like a dry summer day, has no smell.
Sweat forms tiny pools at the base of each blonde hair on my arm. I sit and watch until the pools grow large and overflow their pores, generating small streams that flow down to the lake forming in valley of my elbow.
Even though the sun falls lower toward the horizon, this is the hottest part of the day. As the shadow from the front porch overhang creeps forward towards the street, the first signs of life appear before me. A trail of ants strings across the walkway, following the shadow of the overhang, noticeably avoiding the sun. I drop a small stone in their path and they become confused for a short time. But they quickly find their way around it and resume the serious business of being ants.
The magpies are still sitting under the tree, waiting. This is the first time that I have ever been this close to them. Normally they are very timid. My dad says it is because they are quite intelligent. His friend had one when they were kids and he taught it to talk. Dad says that you have to split their tongues with a razor blade to form a fork in order for them to speak. I have always wondered what it would be like to have one for a pet but I’m sure my mom wouldn’t let me have one. Birds are dirty, she would say.
I hear the doorknob click and turn around to see my mom opening the front door. “Are your sandals dry yet, kiddo?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Okay, you can come in now.”
“Can Chuck come?” I ask.
“No honey, he’s filthy.”
“Hmm. Okay, I’ll just stay out here for a while then.”
With a frown and a shake of her head, my mother closes the door. Chuck and I stare out into the rising heat. We’re just going to wait it out.
Friday, March 4, 2016
Master of Puppets
Thirty years ago yesterday Metallica released the album Master of Puppets, one of the greatest and most influential metal albums of all time. For me, the album completely changed how I viewed music. Hearing it for the first time catapulted me from really liking music to a full-on love affair.
Everyone loves anniversaries. They give us the opportunity to reflect upon those "where I was when" moments. In 1986, at 18 years old, I worked as the night manager at a Round Table Pizza. This entailed closing at 11 p.m. on weeknights and an astounding 1 a.m. on weekends—an unheard of closing time these days. After the doors closed I did the books while my "closer" began cleaning up. Once I completed the bookkeeping, I joined in the cleaning fun until the restaurant was somewhat presentable. We then closed up and dropped off the deposit at a local bank. All told it was about a 90-minute process.
Sometime in March, a couple weeks after the album was released, all my friend and closing partner Ben could talk about was the new Metallica album he had purchased the day before. He simply would not shut up about how incredible it was. My attitude was best characterized by the word, "Whatever."
To the general public, rock music was pretty much dead at the time. Current rock music certainly wasn't on the radio in Sacramento. We had a classic rock station, pop (now called '80s music), soul, oldies and probably multiple country stations. The year of 1985 was particularly dismal. Van Halen broke up. Previously great bands like Aerosmith and AC/DC released some of their weakest work (Done With Mirrors, Fly on the Wall) that year. If you look at the top 100 songs from 1985, you'll only find about six songs representing the rock genre, and half of those sucked. The other half were power ballads. It was a tough time to be a rocker.
I was listening to music like Van Halen, Motley Crue, AC/DC, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Ozzy and Dio. Not bad. I was also listening to stuff like Dokken, Ratt, Great White and Cinderella. Questionable. But all the music had a pretty common theme in that it was guitar driven. In my defense, even on the shitiest of my hair band albums, I gravitated towards the heaviest songs.
After we closed up on that Tuesday night, Ben and I both filled up our plastic one gallon pickle jars with Michelob, Round Table's finest beer, and headed to his house to listen to Master of Puppets. Ben lived in the attic of his parent's home, and to us it was the coolest apartment ever. It was accessed by quite possibly the steepest stairs ever built, and you couldn't stand up in two-thirds of the room, but I thought it was awesome. The low ceiling just made the Arabian style décor that much better.
We assumed our positions on the floor pillows, beer between our legs, and settled in. Ben put needle to vinyl and handed me the lyric sheet. This was the proper way to listen to new music back then.
The music blew me away. Long, epic songs, hard and yet melodic at the same time, with huge changes in tempo and mood. Drum beats and time signatures that were hard to identity; definitely not standard 4/4 rock tempos I was used to. Lyrics that were not of the light "girls and good times" rock and roll fare, but much darker: drug addiction, war, religious hypocrisy, control, assault and mental disease.
The timing was right. I had survived a pretty bad rollover car accident a few weeks prior. Instead of being happy to be alive, though, I was in a very dark place. I was pissed off. The aggressiveness and darkness appealed to me. I bought my own copy the next day.
In the following weeks I listened to the album over and over. I really dissected it. I tried to figure out pieces of the songs on guitar. The music was so much more complex than anything I had tried to learn previously, and at a much greater speed. I couldn't play much of it, which only impressed me more. Cliff Burton's classical music background greatly influenced the complexity and depth of the music. He died later that year in the infamous bus accident.
I soon added Metallica's two earlier albums, and any import or bootleg I could get my hands on. I eagerly anticipated anything released thereafter, and I still do to this day. I have seen Metallica live more times than I can count, and I probably will again. At 48 years old, sometimes it seems odd to me that I still listen to Metallica, but I do.
Thirty years later the album still sounds relevant. It really was a masterpiece produced by a band hitting its peak. I listened to it just a couple weeks ago while working in the yard without even realizing this anniversary was approaching, and I had that very same thought.
You can debate forever where the lines are between different music genres. Personally, I have always called Metallica rock, but most people say metal. At and rate, Master of Puppets is widely acknowledged as the first metal album to go platinum, opening the door for harder music to hit the mainstream.
Happy birthday, Master of Puppets. You still sound good.
Everyone loves anniversaries. They give us the opportunity to reflect upon those "where I was when" moments. In 1986, at 18 years old, I worked as the night manager at a Round Table Pizza. This entailed closing at 11 p.m. on weeknights and an astounding 1 a.m. on weekends—an unheard of closing time these days. After the doors closed I did the books while my "closer" began cleaning up. Once I completed the bookkeeping, I joined in the cleaning fun until the restaurant was somewhat presentable. We then closed up and dropped off the deposit at a local bank. All told it was about a 90-minute process.
Sometime in March, a couple weeks after the album was released, all my friend and closing partner Ben could talk about was the new Metallica album he had purchased the day before. He simply would not shut up about how incredible it was. My attitude was best characterized by the word, "Whatever."
To the general public, rock music was pretty much dead at the time. Current rock music certainly wasn't on the radio in Sacramento. We had a classic rock station, pop (now called '80s music), soul, oldies and probably multiple country stations. The year of 1985 was particularly dismal. Van Halen broke up. Previously great bands like Aerosmith and AC/DC released some of their weakest work (Done With Mirrors, Fly on the Wall) that year. If you look at the top 100 songs from 1985, you'll only find about six songs representing the rock genre, and half of those sucked. The other half were power ballads. It was a tough time to be a rocker.
I was listening to music like Van Halen, Motley Crue, AC/DC, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Ozzy and Dio. Not bad. I was also listening to stuff like Dokken, Ratt, Great White and Cinderella. Questionable. But all the music had a pretty common theme in that it was guitar driven. In my defense, even on the shitiest of my hair band albums, I gravitated towards the heaviest songs.
After we closed up on that Tuesday night, Ben and I both filled up our plastic one gallon pickle jars with Michelob, Round Table's finest beer, and headed to his house to listen to Master of Puppets. Ben lived in the attic of his parent's home, and to us it was the coolest apartment ever. It was accessed by quite possibly the steepest stairs ever built, and you couldn't stand up in two-thirds of the room, but I thought it was awesome. The low ceiling just made the Arabian style décor that much better.
We assumed our positions on the floor pillows, beer between our legs, and settled in. Ben put needle to vinyl and handed me the lyric sheet. This was the proper way to listen to new music back then.
The music blew me away. Long, epic songs, hard and yet melodic at the same time, with huge changes in tempo and mood. Drum beats and time signatures that were hard to identity; definitely not standard 4/4 rock tempos I was used to. Lyrics that were not of the light "girls and good times" rock and roll fare, but much darker: drug addiction, war, religious hypocrisy, control, assault and mental disease.
The timing was right. I had survived a pretty bad rollover car accident a few weeks prior. Instead of being happy to be alive, though, I was in a very dark place. I was pissed off. The aggressiveness and darkness appealed to me. I bought my own copy the next day.
In the following weeks I listened to the album over and over. I really dissected it. I tried to figure out pieces of the songs on guitar. The music was so much more complex than anything I had tried to learn previously, and at a much greater speed. I couldn't play much of it, which only impressed me more. Cliff Burton's classical music background greatly influenced the complexity and depth of the music. He died later that year in the infamous bus accident.
I soon added Metallica's two earlier albums, and any import or bootleg I could get my hands on. I eagerly anticipated anything released thereafter, and I still do to this day. I have seen Metallica live more times than I can count, and I probably will again. At 48 years old, sometimes it seems odd to me that I still listen to Metallica, but I do.
Thirty years later the album still sounds relevant. It really was a masterpiece produced by a band hitting its peak. I listened to it just a couple weeks ago while working in the yard without even realizing this anniversary was approaching, and I had that very same thought.
You can debate forever where the lines are between different music genres. Personally, I have always called Metallica rock, but most people say metal. At and rate, Master of Puppets is widely acknowledged as the first metal album to go platinum, opening the door for harder music to hit the mainstream.
Happy birthday, Master of Puppets. You still sound good.
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